The wall clock gongs inacurately. It might give you two gongs for seven o’clock. It just, at eight o’clock (which it is, or was a second or two, or three ago) gonged out the Westminster chime as a prelude, as it always does, but gave no gongs for eight o’clock.
It can’t be fixed. A clock repair person told me that.
But it’s a nice clock, so it will stay there on the wall, irrespective of innacurate –or no — gongs to count out the hour.
Who needs to be reminded of passing hours, of passing time? This clock doesn’t tick, either, like many old clocks.
Tick, tick, tick, tick….
No. Utterly silent.
But just hearing the Westminster chimes, as if in some beautiful sqaure in sunlight or fog, in London, or New York, or Boston, is enough — imagining time stopped eternally. This side of time is the only time we have to worry about time.
In 2023 I did a post, Last Day of February. I’m always conscious, perhaps too conscious, of passing time, of my failure to advance, to finish projects –conscious of getting older. Last night I was thinking how it was the last day of February again. The last hours. Three years later. Not a lot of progress in my life, as I see it. There is much that has been begun, but not finished.
Now it’s March 1st — again.
In 2023, my Last Day of February post began:
The short month. Two months into the new year. The kitchen butcher block rolling table always seems to have crumbs on it.
Lost time. Nothing left but crumbs.
Time leaves crumbs — crumbs and memories.
I just checked the butcher block table. Still crumbs on it.
I’ll wipe them away.
I’ll keep the memories.
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